


i used you like a warning sign

by thescrewtapedemos



Series: if heaven will have us [2]
Category: Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, M/M, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 09:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6112669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard. Everything's hard, now, and he can feel Anton slipping away from him ever so slowly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i used you like a warning sign

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song i found by amber run, which you should listen to while you read this.  
> enjoy xoxo

“You should leave me,” Anton says and Porter freezes so suddenly it hurts. His muscles all locking at once, his joints fragile and breakable. Ice through him, around him, cold and roaring. He’d been dragging a chair to the window to keep watch from but it falls from his nerveless fingers, legs thumping into the carpet with a muffled noise.

 _I didn’t want you all to leave me behind,_ Dillon mumbles and Porter’s head snaps sideways.

There’s nothing there. Just a window through which he can see the rain falling. It’s always falling now. More rain than break. They wear raincoats and looted rain boots – perfectly sized because they can take their time, try on everything in a store before moving on. They’re better prepared than they had been. He stares at the falling skies for a long moment before he can draw in a breath that shakes in his lungs and look back at Anton.

He’s wrapped up on the mattress they’d pulled to the floor, tucked under double layers of blankets. It’s just a precaution. Fever hasn’t developed yet; just the cough, persistent and hacking and dangerous. Every time Anton fails to muffle the sound Porter flinches because he hasn't stopped looking absently for Dillon yet.

There’s a hole in him, he feels it all the time, a place where Dillon had been and isn’t any longer and won’t ever be again.

“Shut up,” he says and his voice cracks. Anton’s head tilts and his expression is distant. It always is now except when Porter’ pressed right up against him, when they’re kissing desperately like it’ll seal the gap between them. In those moments he’s brilliantly present, incandescently _there_ , absolutely radiant in his misery. Something Porter can touch, and in the touching maybe try to fix.

“You should,” Anton says and Porter hears Dillon again in his words. His voice, something he refuses to call a hallucination because he’s _not fucking crazy_.

“Shut the fuck up,” Porter says and his voice is gone. A hoarse thread.

He turns robotically to check out the window but they’re alone. A tiny abandoned house by the side of the road, none of the dead for almost the whole day. Unlikely they’ll be found either, with the rain like this.

He turns back. Anton’s still watching him. He looks confused, vague and absent. He looks more so when Porter steps over, kicks his blankets aside.

Porter tackles him, or tries really, throws himself across Anton and wrestles to stay on top. It’s not hard, Anton’s slow and hadn’t been expecting it. It’s not difficult to snatch his hands from the air and pin them to the mattress, to ride Anton’s weakened thrashing until he slows to a stop and glares up at Porter, panting wildly. The air wheezes quietly in his lungs.

“What the fuck,” he hisses. He doesn’t cough and so Porter doesn’t loosen his hold on his hands.

“I’m not leaving you,” he says. He says it to Anton, mostly. “I’m not, I won’t, you can’t fucking make me.”

“I could-,” Anton says wildly, bucking against Porter hands again, but he’s already weakening, already slipping away, he can’t shake Porter off. Porter laughs, feels the tears gathering in his eyelashes and doesn’t bother to wipe them away.

“What are you going to do,” he laughs cruelly. “Fucking _shoot me_?”

Anton jerks under him like Porter had shot _him_. Suddenly he’s limp under Porter’s hands and Porter lets him go, drops his wrists like they're on fire and moves his hands to press shaking fingers to Anton’s prominent ribs. They’re so skinny, the both of them. If he really tried he might be able to fit both of Anton’s wrists in one hand.

He doesn’t want to try.

Anton’s hands settle on his thighs, long fingers pressing in to the point ache sets in. He’s crying a little when Porter looks up at his face. Eyes glassy, just the barest wet trickles from the corners of his eyes. His eyelids flinch shut when Porter reaches out without thinking to wipe the tears away. His fingers are dirty.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers and Anton takes in a breath that shudders, that wheezes and catches. “God, fuck, I shouldn’t have said that. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Porter,” he says, and then draws in another breath that shakes his body. “I, I did it, Porter, I did.”

“Fuck,” Porter mumbles, leans down and captures Anton’s lips in a frantic kiss. They’re moving still for a long moment, shaping stumbling words that Porter can’t stand to hear. Slowly he gentles, moves into the kiss, presses back as desperately as he’d been talking, earlier. He tastes like hunger and the granola bars they’d both eaten an hour ago.

“You did the right thing,” Porter murmurs when he finally draws back to breathe. Anton’s head turns away and so he leans in to press gentle kisses to the curve of his neck, the tickling curly hairs of Anton’s untrimmed beard. “You did, it was the right thing, you did the right thing.”

Anton chokes, sounding wounded, and turns his head back to seek Porter’s mouth. Maybe it’s as much to get Porter to shut up as Porter’s first kiss had been; something to stop the hurting words. It’s good though, their last good thing. Something alive and soft and loving and clean.

When Porter thinks of Dillon in moments like this it doesn’t hurt except in the bracing, natural ache of a healing bruise. Hurt well earned. He can remember Dillon sitting back and watching him and Anton devouring each other, laughing with delight, pressing cold electric hands wherever they could reach. He wonders if Anton does the same.

“You can’t leave me on my own,” he breaks away to say, harsh and needy words that buzz against Anton’s lips. “I need you, you can’t go.”

“I won’t,” Anton promises, useless and meaningless words that are everything Porter needs to hear anyway. His hands are in Porter’s hair, tight and sharp with pain. He drags Porter back in for more, pulls him close and kisses and kisses.

Porter’s panting when Anton lets him back up again. He feels hot already, dick stirring in his pants despite the raised desperation of a moment ago. He can feel Anton beneath him, soft but swelling, twitching when Porter moves hesitantly in a clumsy grind. He gasps as Porter does it, a sweet little noise that hits Porter straight in the gut.

“Hey,” he breathes shakily in Anton’s mouth. “Hey, can I?”

He reaches down and presses hesitant fingers to Anton’s waistband. His skin is hot under Porter’s fingertips and he can’t help stroking. His skin's soft, even now. Soft and smooth, the tickle when Porter’s thumb brushes over the line of hair disappearing into his underwear. Anton makes that noise again, the little one like it’s been pulled out of him so sweetly.

“Yes,” Anton breathes and Porter tilts his head up to kiss him one more time. It’s hot, slow and sloppy, wet lips and the gentle press of Anton’s teeth against Porter’s lower lip for a moment.

Porter doesn’t try to pull Anton’s jacket off; it’s still too cold, though the air between them is hot. Instead he pulls it up, kisses Anton’s stomach and the flared wings of his ribcage. Dips and traces a hot tongue over his belly button, then nosing his way down the trail of hair to Anton’s waistband. His skin tastes of salt and human, hot and vital under his mouth and tongue. Porter can’t get enough, pauses for long moments to suck gentle, barely visible marks on Anton’s hipbones.

Anton’s tenting his jeans a little when Porter finally turns his attention to them. Not fully hard but more than halfway there. He’s breathing hard too, a hand loose in Porter’s hair and the other bunched in the blankets.

“Okay?” Porter says against the skin of Anton’s belly. Anton nods, eyes dark and wide, and Porter dips to presses his mouth against the bulge in Anton’s jeans.

It’s hot and rough against his lips and he mouths at it for a moment. Lets himself drift on the feeling until Anton’s hand tugs gently on his hair and he comes back to himself enough to realize Anton’s moaning a little bit, soft and pleased.

Undoing the button to Anton’s jeans takes a few tries but he manages, fingers clumsy with hurry and want. Eventually he manages, unzips Anton's jeans and pauses again to nose at the hot bulge against the cotton of his boxers.

He's still not fully hard but he's almost there, more so as Porter presses gentle kisses to it. When he finally reaches up and carefully hooks Anton's underwear down from over his cock it springs free, flushed and hot and standing proud.

They had done this, before when Dillon had been well enough. Hurried and hot and so, so good. Not since. It had felt too raw, too much like giving up on Dillon's memory. It feels right now, good and like it's healing some place between them that's been slowly splintering under the strain.

Porter still knows what to do though. To lick up the shaft, slow and wet and lazy. Mouth the head, explore and relish the taste on his tongue. And then suck him down a slow bob as smooth as he can make it. He does it, worships Anton's cock with mouth and tongue until Anton's hot and straining hard against the roof of his mouth.

He pulls back for a moment and Anton make a soft noise of protest, hand moving in Porter's hair. It's choked a moment later when Porter dives back in, swallows Anton down and down until his nose is brushing curly hair and his throat is rippling uncomfortably trying to swallow more down.

Anton's hips roll in aborted little thrusts under Porter's hands and his hand is tight in Porter's hair. The noises he makes are desperate and only grow more so until the dizziness from lack of air finally forces Porter to pull off and gasp for breath.

“Porter,” Anton breathes. It sounds like a prayer and Porter goes back down so he doesn't have to answer it.

Cock is a comforting weight on his tongue, familiar and physical. Grounding. He moans around it and gags when Anton bucks into him. Anton's mumbled apology chokes off into a harsh whine when Porter doesn't stop, just dives in again and swallows Anton even further down. He holds there for long seconds again, until the world is running in colored streaks around him and the tears gathering in his eyelashes bead and fall.

Anton’s hands brush against his cheeks, wiping the wetness away, shaking and clumsy and gentle. They guide Porter back up and he drags in breath that feels like crystal in his lungs, sparkling and so good.

“Porter, Porter,” he’s chanting until he pulls Porter up and seals their mouths together. Sound still vibrates against his tongue and Porter swallows it all down, clutching desperately at Anton’s cheeks and shoulders.

He pulls away and nudges gently at Anton’s face with his nose, a soft bump of acknowledgement. Anton’s watching him, expression awed and brilliantly present. Cheeks pink, mouth red, chest moving in deep draws under him.

“Fuck me?”

The words drop from Porter’s mouth without his permission but he likes the way they crack the still air between them. The sharp breath Anton draws in that doesn’t descend into coughing, that barely wheezes in his lungs.

“What,” Anton says, dazed, “I can’t, we don’t have-,”

“I’ve got some,” Porter says and leans over to fish the tube of lube out of his bag. He’d been saving it, for a very long time. It’s still good. He wants this so much; he wants Anton inside him so deep Porter won’t be able to move without feeling him. He wants Anton’s fingers and his cock and him, he just wants it all.

“Jesus,” Anton breathes and takes the tube with fingers that aren’t terribly steady. “When…?”

“A… while ago,” Porter says and looks down at the shining tube in Anton’s hands so he doesn’t have to meet Anton’s eyes. He’d been saving it since before they’d lost Dillon, he means. Anton understands, makes a soft noise but doesn’t let go of the tube. “It was going to be… a surprise.”

Anton’s hand touches his. Porter draws in a shuddering breath and looks up to find Anton’s eyes are glassy too but his expression is open, not the closed-off grief he’d feared.

“Okay then. Yeah. Okay,” Anton says.

“Yes,” Porter whispers and pulls Anton in for another kiss that doesn’t end. Hot mouth, soft lips and the press of teeth so very desperately gentle.

“Jesus,” Anton repeats when they finally break apart. “Okay, my hands are gross, give me a water bottle.”

Porter fishes one free and hands it over, watches Anton wet a corner of blanket with shaking motions and scrub at his fingers. Again and again, until the skin is raw and pink and as clean as it’s possible to be. Safe enough.

“Okay,” Anton says at last and caps the water bottle carefully and sets it aside. “Okay, here.”

His hands guide Porter up and Porter rests his arms around Anton’s neck, lets Anton undo his jeans and work them carefully over his thighs. He moans when his cock springs free and Anton spends a moment touching with curious fingertips. Teasing, maybe purposeful and maybe not. It feels so good anyway, Anton’s hands on him.

Eventually Anton’s hands land on his thighs, and Porter expects to be tipped over to lay on his stomach but instead Anton just urges him over to straddle Anton’s lap, legs farther apart. Presses gentle touches to his inner thighs, stroking and ticklish in a way that makes Porter gasp for breath, cock twitching.

Warm fingers trace delicately over his hole and Porter’s head drops forward, falling without a conscious effort onto Anton’s shoulder. For a long moment a dry fingertip probes at him and he shakes with it, urging himself to relax and let go of the tension in him.

Anton’s hand withdraws and Porter hears the sound of the lube cap snapping open. The slick sound of Anton’s fingers rubbing together, and then he jumps with a hiss as fingers now cold with lube press against his ass.

“Shh, sorry,” Anton murmurs in Porter’s ear and then his fingers are rubbing over his hole, warming rapidly, tracing tight circles around him. It’s terrifying, it feels so good, Porter can’t muffle a soft whine when Anton doesn’t thrust in right away.

When Anton finally breaches him with a finger the intrusion is welcome, filling and exactly what Porter had wanted. It’s thick, or feels like it. It doesn’t hurt but it feels like Porter can’t imagine taking much more. He can’t imagine three fingers, can’t imagine Anton’s cock, but the attempt makes his mouth flood with saliva and his cock jump. There’s precum beading at the head, he can feel it cooling and wet.

Anton rocks in and out of him, slow easy motions that feed into Porter’s cock until he finally pushes in to the join of his hand and crooks the finger and stars explode in Porter’s vision.

He muffles his noise in Anton’s shoulder; a shrill whine that wants to be a scream. Instead he bites down and Anton jerks with it, finger pulling out a little too fast and then pressing back in just as quickly. It makes Porter’s eyes roll back and he tries to hitch his hips backwards, unsure of how to force Anton back in again.

“Another?” Anton asks in his ear and Porter lets go of his mouthful of Anton’s shoulder and jacket to nod. He whines wordlessly when Anton withdraws his finger but registers the sound of Anton moving and the lube cap snapping open again and quiets. He can smell Anton when he presses his nose into jacketed shoulder; sweat, human, the grime of traveling by foot with no water to bathe.

Two fingers press back against his hole, circle once. Porter sighs as they press inside. It hurts a little bit, a dull ache that radiates. It colors his thoughts red and hot. Makes him groan until Anton starts to move with an in-out scissoring motion.

“You’re so hot inside,” Anton says against his ear and Porter moans, hips hitching back at his words. Anton’s fingers press deeper, against that place in him that makes fireworks behind his eyes. He moans louder, pressing his mouth against Anton’s shoulder, and rolls his hips again, trying to work him deeper, more.

Anton doesn’t let him for long minutes, just presses in and out in slow motions. Porter wants to cry but just clings to Anton’s shoulders instead. Rides the cresting sensation, the tightness in his stomach, the tears building in his eyelashes again. It feels like lightning gathering in his chest.

“One more?” Anton asks and the roaring in Porter’s ears makes it hard to hear but he nods anyways.

He’s expecting Anton to take his fingers out but instead he presses in deeper, a quick thrust and his thumb comes up to press against the back of Porter’s balls and then Porter’s coming.

It’s like a punch to the gut, sudden and unexpected but so good, pure pleasure and his neglected, aching cock spurting against Anton’s shirt. He chokes on a sob and it keeps coming, a sharp stab of sensation as Anton carefully pulls his fingers free. It takes him a minute to recover, to slow his breathing, and he realizes he’s crying when he finally registers Anton’s talking to him.

The tears are hot but rapidly cooling on his face, his breathing shuddering in his lungs. Anton’s hands are all over him, stroking frantically. Trying to comfort him maybe.

“Porter, I’m so sorry Porter, Jesus, are you okay?” he’s asking. “Did I hurt you? Are you okay?”

Porter draws in another shuddering breath. Blinks, and feels the gathered wetness in his lashes roll down his face. Anton’s arms go around him and he’s being held, tight and desperate, Anton still mumbling apologies into his shirt.

He laughs, a little hiccupping noise. Anton loosens his hold and looks up at him anxiously.

“I’m,” Porter says, and it’s hoarse. “No, it was good, Anton, it was good.”

“Jesus,” Anton says and buries his face back in Porter’s chest. Porter waits for a moment and then pushes at his shoulders until Anton looks back up at him.

“You should fuck me,” he whispers.

Anton shudders under his hands. He’s still hard when Porter looks down, or mostly. And his pupils are wide and dark when he looks back at Anton’s face. As he watches Anton licks his lips.

“You sure?” he asks quietly. Porter nods and he draws in another shuddering breath.

“Alright,” he says at last and Porter bends to kiss him.

Anton’s mouth is hot and for a moment Porter tastes salt on his lips, confusing until he realizes he’s tasting his own tears. He feels Anton’s fingers teasing at his opening again, tracing through the slick leaking from his hole. For a moment he thinks Anton’s going to push three fingers into him dry and it’s almost tempting – he wants to be full, the emptiness is starting to ache – but then the hand is pulling back and the lube cap is clicking open again.

Three slick fingers press against his hole again and Anton doesn’t wait, presses in with one long, steady motion.

Porter breathes out in a rush as Anton drives his fingers ruthlessly in and in. It burns, it hurts but the pain is just an edge to the fullness that makes the tears start again. He’s crying into Anton’s neck and Anton’s murmuring in his ear and it’s effort to focus but he pulls himself together and tries.

“God, so good, so beautiful, so good, Porter, so good,” Anton’s muttering like a litany and Porter’s breath catches on a moan as Anton’s fingers spread inside him. It’s too much, Anton’s words in his ear and his fingers inside him, the solid warmth of Anton in front of and under him. Supporting Porter, keeping him steady as he takes him apart.

Anton’s fingers crook and then they’re pressing against that place in him that feels so fucking good and he feels his wet limp cock twitch despite itself. Anton doesn’t stop, registers the jolt in Porter and then drives in again and again, scissoring thrusts that force muffled keening whines from his throat. By the time Anton presses a rough kiss to his throat and withdraws his fingers a final time he’s a shaking mess, cock swelling in a way that almost hurts.

“Good?” Anton asks and Porter breathes out another hiccuping laugh.

“Please,” he says instead of yes because yes doesn’t seem like it’s enough. Anton seems to get it anyway, pressing a hand to Porter’s back and urging him forward to reach for the lube bottle again.

His swelling cock presses against his own come cooling on Anton’s shirt. It’s restless friction that makes him shift, whine. Overstimulated but just the right side of too much and he wants to push it over the edge. Anton breathes out another laugh when Porter clumsily tries to grind forward and he dimly registers the slick, obscene noises of Anton slicking up his cock.

He jolts when Anton’s hand lands on his hip but follows the urging direction anyways, spreading his legs and sinking down. Anton’s cock nudges against his hole. It feels blunt and massive, like it’ll split Porter open if he tries to fit it inside him, but he wants it anyway.

“Okay?” Anton asks and his voice is strained, on the edge of breaking. It sounds so sweet, so human, and Porter’s chest feels so full of tears and confused, tangled love that he can’t sort out what it all means.

Porter leans forward for a moment because words have deserted him and kisses Anton, a simple chaste brush of lips.

Anton’s hand on his hip steadies him as he bears down on Anton’s cock.

The sting when Anton breaches him is drowned by the roaring in his ears, the tiny gasp Anton gives and the way his head falls back, mouth coming open and eyes closing. He looks transcendent, beautiful in the brief glimpse before his eyes are closing against the _too much too much_ sensation of Anton’s cock sliding into him an agonizing centimeter at a time.

He moves in slow grinds, working Anton into him so slowly he’s nearly crying again by the time his legs give out and he drops the last inch just a little too fast.

They both cry out with it, muffled as best they can. Anton’s so deep inside him, he’s so full up with the sensation that it feels like it’s pressing against his lungs. Like he can’t feel anything but Anton’s cock stretching his hole, Anton’s hands on his ass spreading him open. Shivery, vulnerable, he can’t catch his breath and wetness is running from the corners of his eyes again.

“God,” Anton chokes out, “You’re so tight, you’re so, _fuck_.”

Porter leans forwards and presses their mouths together. It’s wet, barely a kiss, more an exchange of air and teeth. He feels the catch in Anton’s breathing as he lifts himself up and then drops back down. The drag of friction inside him is so good, hot and rough. He does it again and again, ignoring the burn gathering in his thighs, bracing his hands on Anton’s shoulders.

Anton’s noises are muffled, quiet, but desperate. His hands are on Porter’s hips, helping as much as he can as he rides Anton’s dick. It’s not fast enough, not deep enough, and he sobs with frustration when the sensation isn’t enough. When he can’t get it right, when his muscles start shaking and refuse to move as quickly.

Porter’s thighs burn, muscles aching and seizing until finally he can’t hold himself up, drops down seated fully on Anton’s cock again. Anton cries out and Porter bites down viciously on his lip, the pain blooming behind his eyes just like the pleasure. It feels so good, being full of Anton like this.

“Please,” he sobs and Anton moans back. For a moment he heaves up and Porter chokes because – he’s deeper, suddenly, Anton’s cock so deep in him – and then the world is shifting and he’s on his back. Anton’s hovering over him, haloed in dim blue light from the window. His face is shadowed but Porter can see the glitter of his eyes, the way they’re fixed on Porter’s face.

Anton pulls out slowly and then thrusts forward a rough snapping motion that jolts Porter against the mattress. He cries out, nearly, a shrill noise he muffles with his fingers at the last moment. There are stars in his vision, his body is on fire with it all. He’s hard again, he realizes when Anton frees a hand for a moment to palm his cock roughly.

“You’re so,” Anton grits out and then he’s thrusting in again, again, vicious motion that contrasts so vividly with his hands, gently around Porter’s hips. Pounding rhythm that Porter can’t think through, can’t do anything but shove his fingers into his mouth to keep from screaming. It’s so good, finally that edge of too much and almost-pain that he’d needed.

He sobs with it. There are tears on his cheeks.

“Gonna come,” Anton mumbles and Porter nods, pulls his hand from his mouth and wraps his wet fingers in Anton’s hair to drag him in for a kiss.

He tastes like salt again, like Porter’s tears, mouth clumsy and teeth pressing against Porter’s lips in almost-bites that hurt, that make his cock twitch. He starts to come as Porter presses his tongue into Anton’s mouth.

He can feel it inside him. Hot, the pulse of come in him. It’s so much, so good. He moans into Anton’s mouth.

Anton finally pulls back, panting. He’s still mostly hard inside Porter and he thrusts once, twice more before carefully pulling out. Porter nearly sobs with the loss and then truly does sob when Anton scrambles to lie down next to him and replaces his cock with his fingers.

Three of them. Thick but slipping easily into his well-fucked hole with the slickness of come and leftover lube. Porter groans until Anton kisses him, presses their mouths together to muffle the sound. Like this, spread out and exposed, three of Anton’s fingers thrusting roughly into his hole and nailing his prostate nearly every time, he can’t last long.

He wraps his hand around his cock and starts to jerk himself off. It’s rough, quick, he’s still oversensitized and it edges into painful so quickly. For long moments he rides the feeling, the tight aching of a second orgasm.

Anton pulls away and presses a kiss against his neck when Porter lets his head fall back against the mattress. He’s whispering in his ear, Porter realizes dimly. It takes him a moment to focus.

“I love you,” Anton whispers and Porter gasps.

It feels like he’s been punched in the chest. For a moment his hand freezes on his cock and then Anton’s fingers are thrusting into him more viciously than ever, his own hand tightens, and he’s coming.

He whites out for a long moment, roaring ears and gasping panting.

Anton’s watching him when he finally comes down. His eyes are dark, dazed and awed. Porter can’t speak for long moments, just stares back and tries to press this moment into his memory indelibly. He wants to keep it forever. Anton’s reverential face, his hair limned in the light from the window, his ruined shirt and the rumple of blankets around them both.

He loves him. He loves Anton so much.

He thinks of Dillon, then. Like a sweet knife to the chest, how much Dillon would have loved this. It hurts. It hurts but it hurts like it’s healing. He loves Dillon, always will, knows Dillon had loved him back.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s to Anton but also a little to Dillon’s memory.

Anton’s eyes close and he reaches out to press gentle fingertips to Porter’s cheek.


End file.
